


It Is The Hour

by Femmelillies



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Codependency, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Not Canon Compliant, fuck canon forever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7651126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Femmelillies/pseuds/Femmelillies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's inevitable. There is no ruse. No pretense. It happens without prodding or promise</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Is The Hour

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a poem of Lord Byron's. I wrote this way back during the S1 midseason finale before the writers had a chance to destroy everything good about this show.  
> Thanks to damnmydooah for beta-ing and jwab for feedback (sorry it took me three years to post)

The very first year of their trials, Ichabod Crane and Abbie Mills days are still filled with sunshine, laughter and incredulity, still robust and thrumming with the comforts of their previous life, of their previous selves. But as time and duty stretch on inevitably weariness slips in. Abbie comes to despise the witching hour and all the death and demons it brings in its wake.

  
Because Jenny’s expeditions to acquire information and artifacts for their upcoming trials takes her away from Sleepy Hollow more often than not, Abbie finds herself still essentially living alone. Nighttime has Abbie’s nerves raw enough already but after an attack from a Hessian assassin she and Crane cram her belongings into his cabin, deeming it unsafe to live apart.

  
It occurs to Abbie that this pre-existing soul connection and her whole life’s meaning essentially being tied to her relationship with Ichabod Crane should offend her feminist values and self-reticent nature. But there’s just something about Crane, snarky, archaic attitude and all, that is kind of inherently inoffensive to her, even appealing.

  
She doesn’t know if it’s the unwavering loyalty, the Laddie Helpless in the 21st century gambit, or the fact that once she settles into the room opposite his she sleeps her first full 8 hours in months. Either way Abbie resolves that should she survive these trials, she is moving to Florida (and dragging Crane with her). Hell, maybe even Alaska for the midnight sun; anything to escape the shadows.

  
***  
Ichabod has always been an early riser, but as their battles stretch on he and Abbie find that only sunrise brings the peace of mind necessary for slumber. Eventually, waking and eating porridge at 3 in the afternoon becomes routine. They buy heavy curtains to shut out blessed sunlight for the sake of sleep. The night bares many terrors but he is immeasurably grateful for the balm of Abbie’s presence.

  
Ichabod has never been able to deny the pull Abbie has on him nor his admiration of her. She is passion and pragmatism inexorably wrapped into a delicate and exquisite frame and in an era so far removed from all he has ever known, she grounds him.

  
Conceptually, he abhors adultery. But he distrusts and resents Katrina’s secrets. He sees the chasm growing between them reflected in his wife’s jade gaze. And Crane resigns to the truth that he never, truly knew her, only what she chose to reveal; that he loved Katrina is irrefutable. But he cannot separate what was orchestrated from truth and his feelings convolute to the point of inoperability.

  
Katrina’s absolution is as damaging as it is a relief. Her parting words ensure Crane, “I have always loved you brave Ichabod, but your path and my own were always meant to diverge.”

  
It is hardly consolation or closure and he spends the final hours of that night weeping bitterly on the dock by the lake before he whispers a goodbye and hurls the antiquated emerald choker he has kept tucked away in his bedside drawer. His final tie to the world he once share with his wife disappears with a plop and ripples the waters reflecting the bronze and violet glimmers of dawn.

  
Ichabod resolves that he will not spend his remaining days rolling in the muck of his feelings and failures. Indeed, he very much desires to understand the path that lies before for him; he will embrace what this new world has offered him, who it seems, this new world has offered him. He is not so obtuse that he can deny what blossoms in his heart for his unendingly brave and beautiful Lieutenant.

  
***  
It's inevitable. There is no ruse. No pretense. It happens without prodding or promise. The confession comes first.

  
Crane is hunched over a tome endeavoring to find a way to foil the efforts of the wendigo they have been battling all week. Abbie sits in the grand velveteen chair opposite him, twining a leather and turquoise protective ward together, having recently taken an interest in protective charms. Crane is ragged and debating the merits of a sealing spell vs. the old reliable method of pitchfork and torches when he feels the telltale prickle of a gaze upon his neck  
He looks up to see Abbie’s ever assessing mahogany eyes regarding him, her expression unguarded. He feels what she is going to say before the words leave her lips.

  
“I think I’m falling in love with you. It’s weird because I don’t know if that’s another part of being a Witness. Or maybe I’m sleep deprived and losing my fucking mind.” She pauses, face wry. “But I’m pretty sure it’s the first thing.”

  
And she does not weep or swoon or reach to embrace him. No his Abigail (and she is his, and he is hers. They have belonged to one another since before time began) is far too original for such clichéd declarations. She just smiles gently, without expectation, as if he were a startled doe. But there is an awareness in her gaze, as if she too, knows what he is going to say before he speaks.

  
A million sentiments swirl in Ichabod’s brain but all that comes out is, “I could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve you.”

  
Abbie just scoffs. “You’re more than welcome to start trying in this lifetime,” she says softly before twining her fingers into his and pulling his face to hers for a kiss.

  
Lost in the soft, warm press of her mouth, Ichabod silently vows that he will.

  
***  
What strikes Abbie as odd is that it is all so chaste. There is no urgency behind their touches or kisses. The progression of their relationship is as natural as breathing. Abbie’s always struggled shaking her mother’s outdated preachings about sex being a dirty shaming thing and so much of her sex life has been a cycle of anticipation, elation and guilt.

  
There is a certain relief that comes in her relationship with Crane, as he presses her for nothing and is seemingly quite content with kissing her breathless and holding her hand. The first time she suggests he sleeps in her room his eyebrows kiss his hairline.

  
“Just to cuddle,” she hears herself saying in a rush. Because, dammit, it’s 6 in the morning and that’s all she actually wants. She’s quite enjoying being courted and wooed.

  
Crane merely covers her hand with his own, swathing his thumb back and forth over the tiny birthmark on the back of her hand. “Miss Mills, you must know I have no untoward intentions towards you.”

  
“Neither do I Mr. Crane,” she teases back lightly, having instructed him at least a thousand times at this point to call her by her nickname.  
“I really do just wanna sleep,” she assures him, locking their hands together.

  
She guides them to her bedroom where she strips down to her undergarments, paying no heed to his scarlet tipped ears. Abbie climbs into the bed, laden with violet and turquoise quilts, pulling them aside to make room for him and petting the spot beside her with a coy smile tugging at her pout.

  
“Come on” she beckons, smiling his favorite smile, the one she seems to wear only for him.

  
Weak sunlight peaks through her curtains and lights her skin bronze amongst the shadows. _She_ is his light amongst the shadows.  
He wants to liken her to Callisto and all manner of celestial bodies. Ichabod is hopelessly, irrevocably and quite willingly trapped in her orbit.

  
He slides in the bed next to her, divested of his clothing save his underdrawers. She is instantly pressed against him, skin hot and silky.

  
“Is this okay,” she asks, breath fanning across his collarbone

.  
“Quite,” he squeaks, then clears his throat. Perhaps it would be too forward to say…then again his Abbie has always been the most steadfast purveyor of blunt truth “Lieutenant,” he begins.

  
“Abbie,” she corrects him around a yawn.

  
“Abbie, I pray I am not being too forward and I remind you again that I will never treat you with anything less than the utmost affection and respect.”

  
“Spit it out Crane,” Abbie murmurs, draping her arm across her chest then subsequently tucking her legs between his.

  
Crane endeavors to calm his wits that have suddenly seen fit to flutter out of his head. The words tumble out of his lips with less than half the eloquence he intended them to have.

  
“If, and when you are ready to progress our relationship physically, just know you have my standing consent.”  
***  
Abbie never realized that someone could knot their heart into yours with words alone.

  
Sometimes they just talk. Their adrenaline is usually running pretty high after their battles so they pass the time coming down trading stories about their pasts. Crane elicits soft laughter from her with tales of his mischievous childhood, being hazed in his fraternity and, proudly, of his first year teaching. They discuss books, swapping recommendations.

  
Abbie is surprised by and approves of how much Voltaire’s ideologies shaped early American culture, though his views on polygenetics put her off. She cannot stand the much more pretentious works of Karl Marx and ascertains that his influences greatly contributed to the commercialism Crane has grown to despise so much.

  
Crane confesses one day, clutching a copy of The Soul of Black Folk that while he always fought for rights, he never truly understood the social implications behind them all. The intellectual side of him left Crane inclined to demand equality for all peoples but it is only in era that he understands that equality and privilege cannot coexist as many forefathers were wont to believe. Crane is truly becoming a man of the 21st century.

  
One night, after having rescued a six-year old from a child sacrifice ceremony and returning him to his mother, they are filling out paperwork, yet again, at the asscrack of dawn. Or rather, Abbie is. Crane has a bitter, far off expression tugging down his features and is absentmindedly twiddling a pen. Abbie can feel his pain in the cadence of her own heartbeat and it drives her to share something she has only privately considered until now.

  
“You know, if we survive this thing- when we survive this thing,” she motions the pen in hand between them, “We could maybe have a couple kids.”

  
Crane’s head snaps up, eyes filled with tremulous hope. “I-is that something you truly desire?”

  
Abbie pauses, considering a moment before sharing her hugest reservation with him.

  
“I don’t really know how to be a mom because mine wasn’t much of an example. But running through the system I have a pretty heavily compiled what-not-to-do list. That’s gotta count for something.”

The whole spiel sounds pathetic to her own ears but Crane is looking at her with something akin to devotion in his eyes and it encourages her to finish the thought.

  
“Plus it’ll be ours which means I’m going to love it by default and I know you’ll do great as long as you aren’t trying to force it learn Latin before it can walk.”

  
Ichabod just manages not mention the importance of cognitive development at an early age.

  
“We have a good deal of time left before such an endeavor would be considered a wise move to make,” he says sagely, “and I cannot deny that I very much wish for this to come to pass. But, Lieutenant, I will not press you to bear children.”

  
Abbie laughs wryly, can hardly believe that this is her, but says the words anyway.

  
“You aren’t. I want to have kids with you,” she pauses, wishing to clarify her previous statement. “Okay maybe only one, two tops. Listen, if I change my mind you’ll be the first to know.”

  
This seems to be the right answer because Crane’s mood brightens perceptively and they wind up debating baby names for an hour because ‘nuh uh’ there's no way she's naming anything that comes from her loins, Ichabod Bennett Crane III.

  
A full week later they're trudging uphill muddy and recovering from a nasty hex when Crane suddenly goes, “I quite fancy Penelope.”

  
And Abbie smiles and her hearts swells because her mind’s eye envisions little Penelope Crane with wild, curly hair and Crane’s prim eyebrows and she’s a little amazed at how much she wants that.

  
“We could call her Penny,” she adds. Nevermind they haven’t fucked yet.

  
***  
When they do get to it they've been making out and dry humping for a little over a month. Abbie’s not quite sure why they're taking the teenaged round the bases route when she's never felt more comfortable with anyone in her entire life, but she’s hardly complaining about the most incredible finger-banging sessions of her life.

  
It’s 6 o clock in the morning, and Crane is completely asleep but Abbie lies awake listlessly, still wound up from all the action. Amongst other reasons. They haven’t fooled around in a few days, having been preoccupied with sealing away a banshee and mountains of paperwork.

  
Abbie considers her sleeping lover. He sleeps on his back, the dark smattering of hair against his slim yet well-defined chest rising and falling with his even breathing.

  
His lips are parted, his eyebrows smoothed of expression. Abbie finds herself giggling at her next thought. Between his wild hair strewn across her pillow and the beard he looks a little like a caveman. Albeit a cultured one, Abbie curls into him a little closer.

  
Attuned to her presence even in slumber, Crane responds, one of his arms comes around her side, drawing her more closely into him, but he does not rouse. Abbie reaches up to brush a dark lock from his face, revealing his high, smooth forehead, the tiny scar there. She is struck with the urge to kiss it and she does, quickly, not intending to wake him.

  
But the woodsy autumn smell of him fills her lungs in her next breath and Abbie is bidden to press another kiss to his jaw and then to his jugular, breathing in more of him and draping her leg across his middle. Oh, what have we here? Someone’s got a semi.

  
Crane awakens with a tiny gasp when Abbie cups him firmly through his boxers. He places a warm palm against the apple of her cheek, and she wonders for perhaps the millionth time how someone’s eyes can be blue and green and silver all at once.

  
“Hey,” she breathes, drawing her hand away, a smile tipping the corners of her mouth upward.

  
“I was dreaming of you,” he says quietly, threading his fingers into her hair. His eyes are bright but his inflection is sleepy. “Though I must say the reality of your loveliness far outstrips any visage my mind could conjure.”

  
Before Crane, Abbie prided herself on being a hardass who didn’t have time for the flowery sentiments men threw at her. But she has learned that the “damn baby, you’re sexys” she’s been receiving her whole life simply cannot hold a candle to the romanticisms of a 18th century English scholar. Not only that, but Crane’s so genuine and impassioned in expressing his feelings for her that she not only believes him, but she’s starting to think she deserves his love if she’s even half as wonderful as he professes her to be. Who knew relationships could actually be liberating?

  
“Is that why you have a boner?” she teases before fitting her mouth over his and pressing her hand back against his erection, already heavy and twitching.  
Crane groans softly into her mouth when she glides her tongue over his bottom lip, encircling her with one arm and tugging her underwear down her thighs with the other.

  
Abbie uses the opportunity of shimmying out of her underwear to sling a leg over Crane’s waist and perch herself on raised knees atop him. Her fingers dance lightly across planes of his stomach and he shivers perceptively, bringing his own fingers to press against her damp clit.

  
She swats his hand away, choosing instead to pull his briefs down his legs and pepper kisses along his thighs, all nutmeg colored hair, sinew and creamy skin. Her hair falls forward in a curtain against his hip when she runs her tongue across his erection and Crane makes whining sound.

  
“Let me touch you,” he begs, reaching down to cup Abbie’s breasts through the soft material of her sleeping shirt.

Crane is an ardent and generous lover, which Abbie kind of always suspected him to be, but she is surprised by how vocal he is in bed and she definitely likes it - almost as much as she likes teasing him.  
“In a little bit,” she returns, sliding her nails across his thigh before swirling her tongue over him again.

  
“This is the sweetest form of torment,” he says shakily, long fingers fisting against her sheets. “Lieutenant, I bid you.”

  
Abbie giggles and slides up his lean body, presses her cunt against the smooth hardness of his erection. She wants to fuck him. There’s nothing special about this day or hour except that they are experiencing it together. He has been so loving and not once has Abbie felt the thinly veiled endurance most men project when waiting to experience a woman for the first time. Crane has never stifled her autonomy and she loves him fiercely for it.

  
“It’s okay,” she tells him in response to his questioning azure gaze, and takes him in her hand before dipping herself onto his length. It stings a bit because Crane is far from small and she could be a little wetter to take in such a girth but it doesn't matter because this is still perfect.

  
Crane’s hands are gripped around her waist and he stares at her intently, chest heaving. Without breaking their eye contact, Abbie braces a hand behind her on his thigh and rolls her hips.  
They groan simultaneously at the sensation and Abbie repeats the motion, setting a steady rhythm of rolling her hips back and Crane pulling them forward. He is curved just so and brushes a delightful spot in her with every thrust.

  
Crane tugs impatiently at the straps of her bra, “remove this damned thing,” he bids her gruffly, the mechanics of 21st century brassieres continue to escape him, something Abbie finds endlessly amusing.

  
Abbie’s lip is permanently wedged between her teeth and she unclasps the tiny hooks in the front, sliding out of the soft cotton cups. Crane rears up the instant her full breasts hang free, dwarfing them in his huge hands, nipping and suckling. Abbie loops her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist, gasps and moans increasing in volume and frequency as Crane’s tongue wreaks havoc on her clavicle.

  
The lazy pace they’d set earlier increases when Crane cups her ass and begins lifting and surging into her. Abbie’s skin feels electrified and she digs her nails into Crane’s shoulders as she curls her hips to meet his thrusts. Her orgasm is looming and the whole experience feels strangely cosmic. Crane had once made an anecdote about being trapped in her orbit but in this moment Abbie feels like they are supernovas, ordained to implode on each other and everything around them.

  
Crane whimpers into her neck as he busies himself sucking a hickey at the base of her throat. This position presses his pubic bone to her clit and the friction of his soft curls against her wetness creates a gratifying, slick sound. Abbie moans shamelessly as she hurtles toward her climax. When the delectable coiling in her belly unfurls savagely, Abbie cries out, burying her face into Crane’s hair.

  
Crane lowers her onto the mattress, shifting into a kneeling position, hands spread around the tiny expanse of her waist.  
His pace slows as she shudders through her peak and he watches, fixated on the ruby flush in her cheeks and bloomed across her chest. Her dark and swollen nipples heaving, the sleek, corded muscles of her belly tightening with his every thrust; he wants to commission portraits of her like this.  
When she can breathe again Abbie runs her hands over Crane's sides and smiles up at him, spreads her thighs wider for him, inviting him to thrust into her harder. Crane does not disappoint and to her shock Abbie can already feel the tremble of another orgasm building. Foreskin is incredible, she decides, squeezing her eyes shut; there is decidedly less blind thrusting and a lot more delicious friction.

  
Crane dips his dark head to watch his erection, glistening with her wetness, disappear into her folds, utterly entranced. Abbie props herself up on her elbows to spectate their joining for herself and is rewarded when, at that precise moment, Crane pulls himself out of her to rub his erection against her clit. Abbie’s head falls back and she moans hotly.

  
“More,” she pleads arching her back and wrapping her legs around his waist.

  
He drops his sweat dampened forehead to her dainty shoulder. “You are perfection Grace Abigail,” he swears, gasping as his fingers grip at the supple skin of her thigh.

  
He supposes, given his calling, he should consider himself a Christian man but he does not. However, being inside Abbie is something akin to a religious experience; he is a man paying homage, seeking absolution from his deity. She is slick and hot and breathlessly tight; she is everything good in this world.  
“Come for me,” his goddess demands feverishly, undulating her hips beneath him, forcing the expanse of his neck to her mouth to suckle at his Adam’s apple.  
He would not deny her even if he were capable. And in less than a dozen thrusts he is coming undone, her name a litany on his lips. He is rewarded with Abbie crying out her release as her walls tremor and milk him.

  
When they manage to catch their breath Crane slips out of her and rolls onto his back, shifting Abbie so that her slight figure is lying on top of him.

  
“Was so good,” she murmurs drowsily, running her hands down his sides.

  
“Indeed,” he agrees and crooks his neck to peer down at her.

  
The curtains are not shut all the way and little rivulets of morning sun light Abbie’s eyes cinnamon, strange and fey. She reaches up and pulls him into a kiss and even spent like this he can feel his body stirring for her again.

  
Ichabod thinks that though he and Abbie are destined, against all impossibilities of time, to spend their nights defeating devils and protecting the lives of innocents, they live the life they’ve chosen to have-- together--at dawn's break.

**Author's Note:**

> I used to have so much hope for this show *sighs*  
> I wrote this whole fic and didn’t realize Ichabod’s love confession was a line in “The Hunger Games,” but now, more than ever it seemed appropriate. Please let me know what you think, I was very nervous about posting this.


End file.
